


Dating Apps for the Damaged and Dying

by Ryenan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alone Peter Hale, Alternate Hale Fire, Architect Peter Hale, Coach Stiles Stilinski, Disabled Character, Emotional Baggage, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Lacrosse, Light Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pack Bonding, Professor Stiles Stilinski, Sane Peter Hale, Scarred Peter Hale, Scent Marking, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, Stiles Stilinski Speaks Polish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-04-18 06:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14207391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: This was supposed to be short and sweet, a goofy Steter-meets-Tindr 1,000 word piece, but it got way out of hand. Updates Monthly.Stiles Stilinski is a lacrosse coach, professor, and victim of werewolf brutality. He has no one to talk to about that last part until he meets Peter Hale, a werewolf with the scars to match his own and a desperate need for Pack. Good thing he widened the location search parameters on gaydr instead of just deleting the stupid app.





	1. Chapter 1

Peter, 32

            Young, wealthy, dying quick. Looking to have some fun before I go.

 

It’s the most depressing dating profile Stiles has ever read, but the pics are hot, so Stiles swipes right. There aren’t that many available gay or bi guys in his age bracket this close to the university, so he’ll take what he can get.

That is, Stiles tries to swipe right, but he’s not used to the new Gaydr format and somehow ends up with a big gold star and “Super Like” on the man’s face before it slides away.

“Oh, fuck me, what?” He tosses the phone down on the bed and groans.

 

 

Gaydr has a weird chime, like a porno-moan run through a synthesizer, and it sends him scrambling for his phone. The notification just reads out “One new match…”

“Let it be Peter, let it be Peter – “

Hell yeah.

More of his information is unlocked since they’re matched. He lives out on the edge of the city, near the woods, almost thirty miles from the college – just barely making it through the proximity filter.

Does he wait for Peter to message him? Does he say something first? Does he just scroll through the photos until he dies?

>> Peter

            Seven photos, all featuring the same red hoodie. Should I be concerned?

>>Miecz

            You’ve got the most depressing bio I’ve ever read. Should I be concerned?

>>Peter

            Touché. Why the red hoodies though?

>>Miecz

            I’m an assistant coach for the lacrosse team at BHU.

 

There’s a lull in the conversation – the message is marked as read, but Peter isn’t typing. Stiles’ fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to figure out what he said wrong. Did that message need an emoji? Should he ask about the ‘dying’ thing? That doesn’t seem like something he should ask. Shit, it’s been three minutes. He can’t send a follow up emoji after three minutes. It doesn’t take that long to pick an emoji.

Whatever, he’s probably too busy dying to be a sarcastic asshole. It’s only been three minutes. He should set the phone down, do something, check it later –

 

>>Peter

            And you lead the ‘Slavic Languages Institute’

>>Peter

            And you did your graduate studies in Prague

>>Peter

            Do you want to go to dinner?

 

Stiles gapes at his phone for a few minutes, letting Peter sit on ‘read’ like he made Stiles do, while, apparently, he was researching him. The asshole had the gall to google him. To reveal that he had googled him! Who even does that?

 

>>Miecz

            To be fair, I mostly grew up in California. And you asked why I was always wearing red, not what I did.

>>Miecz

            You do know how creepy it is you googled me, right?

>>Peter

            But you’re a public figure, being assistant coach to the eleventh ranked title-one lacrosse team in America. You should be used to it.

 

Okay, confirmed sarcastic ass-hat, that bodes well. At least he can keep up.

 

>>Peter

            Dinner?

>>Miecz

            What’s your rush? Tell me something about you, or give me your last name

>>Peter

            Now who’s in a rush? I suggested dinner, and you’re suggesting marriage

>>Miecz

            So I can look you up

>>Miecz

            You know that

>>Miecz

            What do you do? Model?

>>Peter

            I’m an architect

>>Peter

            No modeling for me anymore

>>Peter

            Aren’t you going to ask me about my bio?

>>Miecz

            Nope

>>Miecz

            Architect sounds like money. You’re buying dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles uses Mieczyslaw publicly, because he's a professor of Slavic languages, and it boosts his credibility. He also spent a good portion of his late teens and twenties in Poland, and he's more comfortable with his name. Still uses 'Stiles' as a nickname however.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles is a whopping three minutes late, which is really good time, considering how many times he changed clothes. He hasn’t worried about his appearance this much since high school.

There’s nothing to be done for his face that won’t just draw more attention to the scars, but Peter didn’t comment on them before, so it’ll probably be fine.

Probably. Some people who could handle them in photos couldn’t deal with looking at them, him, in person across a dinner table.

Five minutes late, now, from sitting in his car and psyching himself up. Time to go in.

Time to go.

Go in.

Fuck.

 

“Hello?”

“Look, I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot trying to come in, but I haven’t been on a real date in, like, years, and I just need another minute. But I’m here.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I could use another minute for practicing how to say your name in a salacious, accurately pronounced way, so okay.”

“You saw my scars in the photos, right? They’re pretty bad – “

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Ah – “

The dial tone interrupts before Stiles can reply. He slowly lowers the phone looks at the call screen – the number he hasn’t even saved – to confirm that yes, Peter hung up on him.

But the door of the restaurant is opening, and a broad figure is headed for his car. It’s dark out, save the blinding, distorting, too-white light over the tiny parking lot, which washes away all the details.

“Open the car door, Mieczyslaw.”

It’s not a perfect pronunciation, but Stiles hasn’t heard that name said with such intent, such care, in years – it shocks and soothes at the same time, and he opens the door.

“I’m glad you didn’t succumb to the inane desire to remove the doors from your Jeep. Speaks to a decent self-preservation instinct.”

“Ah, hey. Sorry – “

“Are you going to get out of the car, or just sit there with the door hanging open?”

“Right,” Stiles says, quickly undoing his seat belt and sliding out of the car. “Hey. How are you.”

Peter laughs a little, and turns to offer his arm. The light shifts, catches on the line of his nose and in the fine hair on his chin – revealing that the right side of his face is drawn tight with long-healed burns that creep up his neck all the way to his hairline. They pull at his eye and the corner of his mouth, discolor what is left of his ear.

Stiles doesn’t gasp, make any noise of surprise, but his heart rate ratchets up enough for Peter to know he sees the scar well enough, even in the dark.

“How did you get yours?” The question comes out in a rush, but Peter understands.

“Murderous con artist sister in law. You?”

“Werewolf.”

Stiles waits for Peter to laugh, or get angry at him for joking around, but he doesn’t. He believes him. That means Stiles was right, probably, that Peter is a wolf himself.

“Are you – “

“Oh, no, it was a beta. You recognized the look of them, didn’t you? That’s why you were so eager for a date.”

“Are you a hunter?” Peter asks without flinching, continuing to walk calmly toward the restaurant. There is no fear in his voice, or anger, just a deceptive calm.

Stiles stutters around a protest, still being led by the arm, until he understands well enough to stop in his tracks.

“No. No! Peter, these scars, they were – “ It’s a long story, to explain his mother’s family and all the time he spent looking for them. It can’t be distilled easily, without leaving out too many players and scenes.

“My mother was a wolf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr, @PoignantlyArrogant ! I'd love to chat, and I take prompts!


	3. Chapter 3

After high school, Stiles hopped on a plane and never looked back. That lasted eight years, through college and most of his grad work, till he was attacked. Then he needed his father, his home, something besides his crazy village life and psycho extended family.

The Wilczek family were all wolves. All of them. If a child was born human, they received the bite on their first birthday, and were raised no different than their born-wolf siblings. If someone wanted to marry in, they had to take the bite. If you died, instead of turning, then you were unfit to be in the family and that was that.

And if you showed up, claiming you were Klaudia’s son, and you weren’t a wolf? They were all so suspicious of him, and he couldn’t understand why, back before he knew the secret. They warmed up to him eventually, when he started to help take the kids to school, and pick up groceries, and that’s when the trouble really started.

They argued about him, biting him, for months until an angry beta, an unwilling wolf married in, decided to take matters into her own hands.

 

“Hanna bit me several times, before she did this to my face. No one told her that ‘the bite’ was an alpha thing, that she would only end up hurting me. I spent a few weeks in the hospital and then came straight home. Finished up my dissertation online, never went back to Poland, even for graduation.”

“My family always treated the bite as a gift, not a requirement. Most of the pack was human.”

“Yeah, that’s what I found in my research. I don’t know when or why my family started to think only wolves could be pack.”

“I’m sorry this happened to you. Not all wolves –“ Peter reconsiders his choice of words, “I don’t ascribe to any such notions.”

Stiles smiles at him, soft and genuine, and Peter can’t help but smile back.

He has to control it, carefully, use the unblemished side of his mouth more so that his scars don’t pull at his eye and nose and make him look any more grotesque. He’s practiced smiling in the mirror more than anything, just wishing he could be charming and beautiful again.

“Hey,” Stiles says, slapping his hand on the table lightly, “Cut that out. Just smile, Peter, don’t think about it so hard.”

“I wasn’t – “

“Your eyes lit up when I smiled, I saw them, and then they went as dull as can be while you tried to put just the right smile on. You don’t have to do that with me. I know how scars pull, I know what they look like. You didn’t even notice how crooked my split lip looks when I smile, did you?”

He smiles again, a huge grin, and taps the drooping, distorted edge of his bottom lip where Hanna’s claw had severed the muscles and nerves irreparably.

“You can smile. It’s okay.”

“It’s only been a year and a half. Since the fire. I uncovered a mirror to practice that smile, just for you.”

“Does it hurt? The only reason you should limit your facial expressions is if they hurt, otherwise, you’re not doing the muscles any favors.”

“I don’t want to be any uglier than I already am, Stiles.” Peter says this rather harshly, almost growls, but Stiles just grins at him.

“You didn’t control your expression then, Peter. And you were just as handsome. I’ve looked like this for almost six years, you should trust me.”

Peter wants to, wants to trust him and smile and feel handsome, but it’s a lot to ask.

“I’ll try. Would you like desert?”


	4. Chapter 4

Peter tells him the story of the fire over cake and coffee, an abridged version he’s crafted so as to not speak too ill of the dead.

“I don’t blame my nephew. The Argents are crafty, and she was trained perfectly. But it took a long time to get to this point.”

“Wow. I had no idea how dangerous… The Argents, are they gone? What happened to them?”

This is the part where Peter has to be especially careful, not reveal –

“I killed the ones responsible. Kate and Gerard and Victoria, some thugs, some mercenaries. The druid who sold them the mountain ash they used to seal the house.”

“Good.”

“I must admit I was expecting some resistance to the idea that your date is a murderer.”

“What do you think I did to Hanna? That my father did to Szymon and Emil and Aleksandra?”

Peter shrugs, and Stiles shrugs, and the waiter appears with the cheque, having waited till they stopped whispering so as not to interrupt.

 

 

Peter escorts Stiles out to his Jeep, but they just lean against the hood and talk a little while longer.

“So, would you be willing to come to a game this weekend? There’s a special box for friends and family of the coaches, and I can get you a ticket –“

“I don’t know the first thing about lacrosse.”

“Oh,” Stiles sighs, slumping a little.

“So can you sneak me into a practice before the game, so I know what I’m looking at come Saturday?”

Stiles lights up again, and Peter is really enjoying how enthusiastic, how happy he is. This is the man he needs in his life.

“Absolutely! Afternoon practice is at four thirty every day, and I’ll get you a temp parking pass for the lot by the fields. Do you have any appointments this week to schedule around?”

“Appointments?”

“Well, ah, with whatever is, you know – you said you were dying?”

He is withering away without a pack, last of his line and all, but that had also been an easy way to keep the college kids from messaging him, looking for a sugar daddy.

“Dying of loneliness, of not having a pack or any connection, but not anything I’d see a doctor for. I’m sorry, I should have cleared that up earlier.”

“Wolf without a pack becomes an omega. I understand, I think. You seem pretty stable.”

“It’s only been a year and a half, and living on pack territory helps. But yes, I’m omega material. I hope that we can be friends, even if this doesn’t – “

Stiles hugs him, strong arms but a soft grip, and doesn’t let go. He smells like pears and biotin oil, nerves and a hint of attraction. It’s wonderful, so wonderful, seven seconds of actual connection.

“You’re the only person I’ve been able to tell the truth about my scars to. And you got my name, like, mostly right. You’re stuck with me, even if it is just as friends, but I’d prefer something… more.”

“I would too, very much. May I – “ He doesn’t know quite what to say. Kiss you? Scent you? Follow you home?

Stiles answers for him, stepping back into his space to press his scarred cheek to Peter’s.

There’s few functional nerves left, and usually they just hurt, but Stiles’ touch is soothing. Peter pulls away slowly, presses a faint kiss to the gashes on Stiles cheek, tries his best to smile.

“Thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

The date was on Tuesday, and Stiles spends all of Wednesday teaching, from ten am till four, before heading off to practice. He hasn’t heard from Peter all day, but the wolf is probably trying to not be too clingy.

Stiles is totally enamored, so Peter shouldn’t worry. He had no idea how good it would feel to tell someone, besides his father, what had happened to him.

He’s dumping his laptop and papers in the coaching office when his phone buzzes with a text message.

>>Peter

            I’m in the lot by the east fields, come get me

 

Stiles curses his shitty outfit while he types out his reply, and starts to kick off his shoes so he can change into practice gear. He’ll just make a temp parking pass on some school stationery and stick it on his windshield.

>>Stiles

            Changing, be there in 10 min

>>Stiles

            What do you drive?

 

Peter doesn’t reply, or even read the messages, but Stiles hustles out of the office with a hastily scrawled ‘parking pass’ and his sneakers half-tied. The hurry was pointless, however, because Peter is already walking across the fields toward Stiles – surrounded by Stiles’ team.

“Uh, Peter? Guys and Gals?”

“Coach M!” one of the kids – college age, sure, but still a kid – calls out, waiving wildly.

“Malia, you’ve got my, ah, date there.”

“I know, he’s great! Have you been in that car?” She separates from the pack and jogs across the grass to Stiles, clapping a heavy hand against his shoulder.

“He’s so cool, Coach, with that car, and he’s got the thing going on with his face, just like you!”

Stiles just laughs at her assessment, and pushes her towards the locker room.

“Everybody go get dressed! You don’t want to be late to practice when there’s a guest of honor, do you?”

The rest of the team hustles across the field and into the building, following Malia, smiling or clapping Stiles on the shoulder as they pass.

“Good afternoon, Stiles.”

“Peter. Guess you’ve met the team now. Most of them, anyway.”

“They were hanging out in the parking lot when I arrived. James offered me a… replica… parking pass from his truck, so we won’t be needing that.”

He gestures to the sheet of paper in Stiles’ hand, barely brushing the cuff of his long-sleeved workout shirt.  Stiles turns his hand a little, so the back of his hand glides under Peter’s fingers, like they’re teenagers stealing touches.

“James is from Brooklyn,”

“Oh, I could tell by that accent.”

“Ha. He’s always got something up his sleeve. His best friend, not on the team, is a saint though. Looks like he’s never even heard the word contraband.”

“How about Malia? Did you know she’s a wolf?”

“What?”

“You didn’t. Well, she’s a were-coyote, I think. Slightly different scent.”

They’re just sort of milling about on the grass, standing close and almost whispering.  Stiles is fiddling with the piece of paper, creasing it over and over between nimble fingers, while Peter keeps his hands tucked in his pockets. He’s dressed for the weather, light jeans and a simple but well-tailored tee-shirt, and Stiles feels overdressed in comparison, covered from neck to wrist to ankle.

“I, ah, wear the sleeves and stuff because I don’t want the kids seeing the bite scars. They’ve seen accidental bites on the field before, they could probably all tell they aren’t from a dog, like I claim.”

“You don’t have to justify your attire to me, Stiles. Where do you want me to sit? I don’t want to distract your students.”

“Oh no, they do so much better when someone’s watching. They crave attention, If I didn’t involve you in practice today we wouldn’t get anything done. You stay right here, and let me run in and grab my gear and the folding chairs, okay? Just a sec.”

Stiles hesitates on the end of his sentence, shifting back and forth, before raising up on tip toe and quickly brushing his lips against Peter’s cheek. He bolts off towards the building as soon as he’s done, cheeks red, and doesn’t get to see the look on Peter’s face.


	6. Chapter 6

“Malia, slide over here when you’re dressed,” Stiles calls into the din of the locker room, hopeful she can hear him. The coach’s area is always a mess, the other assistant coaches just throwing the gear down and hoping some of the team will tidy it up. Stiles has his eye on the main coaching position, partly because he’s tired of this shit, but he needs a few more wins and probably a few more years before the university would consider it. He’s pushing bags and chairs out of the way to get to his equipment locker when Malia appears in the doorway, mere moments after he called for her.

“Coach?”

“Hey. So, ah, no good way to say this, but you’ve – “ There really isn’t a good way to say it, and she’s already got a worried look on her face, so he switches to plan B and tugs the sleeve of his exercise shirt up.

There is a clear, well defined bite scar on his left forearm, and he shows it to Malia, rotating his arm back and forth.

“So, look at that, and then my face, and then understand when I say I’m in the know, and I’m sorry your secret got revealed for you, Peter didn’t know that I didn’t know,”

Malia cuts him off.

“I thought you did know. You’re always telling me to not be too rough!”

“Yeah, because you play like it’s life or death out there!”

“Whatever. So we’re cool?”

“Ah, yeah. Just let me know if you ever need anything, or need to sit out a game on the full moon. You suck at faking ill, okay?”

She smiles, and takes the bag of field cones he passes to her. She also grabs two folding chairs without prompting, and leaves Stiles to gather up his own helmet and stick.

#

“Okay team, huddle up!” Stiles calls, standing on the edge of the field a few feet from where he’s set Peter up with a lawn chair and caddy of water bottles.

“It’s Wednesday, our next game is Saturday, against UO! They’re coming here, thank the heavens, so there will be no bus ride shenanigans!”

The team lets out a collective disappointed moan, like they haven’t heard this spiel every day for a week.

“Coach M!”

“You want to know about Peter, don’t you. None of you care about the game that will send us to nationals if we win, or our strategy in said game, or the oppo’ research I’ve put together on our opponents.”

“Not even a little,” Liam, a sophomore, says.

“Fine. Peter is not my boyfriend,” There’s an undercurrent of disappointment in the noises the team makes at this, but Stiles prattles on. “Because we’ve only been on one date. He’s here because he knows fuck-all about lacrosse, but is coming to the game on Saturday, so this –“

He pauses for dramatic effect, with the hope one of the players will understand what he’s getting at and call it out, but none of them do.

“This is a teaching practice!”

The team erupts into hoots and cheers, and Stiles turns to see what Peter makes of their behavior. He’s smiling bemusedly, a smirk with the unscarred side of his mouth, the rest of his face half hidden behind sunglasses.

“For those of you cretins who have forgotten the rules to a teaching practice – call out what you’re doing as you do it, and if it works, you’ll have to explain why. This is for your benefit as much as his, Lacrosse is a strategy game. Now warmup with four laps, ready, go!”

They all take off, excited for the easy practice day, and Stiles goes to sit with Peter. He drops down on the grass at Peter’s feet instead of in the second folding chair so he can start stretching.

“They all seem to adore you.”

“They’re monsters, every last one of ‘em. They’re behaving in front of company, but it’s a fight some days to get the on the grass.”

Peter laughs a little, and Stiles looks up at him from a hamstring stretch.

“Never the less. Tell me, how many dates does it take to achieve “boyfriend” status?”

“I knew you’d hate that word, but you can’t imagine the mocking I’d get if I said partners, or lovers, or something. They’re brutal.”

“I can imagine. One of my nieces… well, she and Malia would have been friends. Who’s the team captain?”

Stiles lets him change the subject, and they joke about the team for a few minutes more before Stiles has to go back to coaching.


	7. Chapter 7

“You never did tell me what you drive,” Stiles says, as they walk across the field toward the parking lot after practice. He’s changed back into his teaching clothes, but left the mess in the coaching office for another day so he could spend time with Peter. “The team seemed very excited about it.”

“I own, and regularly drive, a Shelby 1000 Cobra.”

Stiles fails to gasp or go starry eyed, just nods and smiles like he understands, and Peter thinks back to the Jeep.

“You’re not a car person, are you.”

“Nope, not at all. Just tell me what color it is, and I’ll make the appropriate noises of awe, okay?”

“It’s blue. It’s one of one hundred ever made.”

“That’s nice.”

“I own two.”

“Okay.”

The team has all left by now, scattered quickly to give their coach a little privacy. There are still plenty of cars in the lot, what with the other teams – softball, soccer – still practicing, or finishing up. It’s seven thirty, and Stiles hadn’t really expected Peter to stay the whole time, doesn’t have a plan for what they should do now.

“You stayed the whole time, I’m impressed. It’s not that exciting to watch a practice.”

“Oh, you gave me plenty else to watch.” There’s a hint of fang in Peter’s grin. Stiles tries to nudge him off balance with his shoulder, in affront, and ends up with his hand wrapped gently around Peter’s bicep.

“Hey now. That’s…third date material.”

“Are we counting this as a second date? I’ve got a granola bar we could split if a meal is required for it to count.”

Stiles laughs, giddy, and squeezes Peter’s arm.

“We’ll call this a date, but I’ll have to take a raincheck on that granola bar. I’ve got a whole lot of papers to grade.”

They’ve arrived at Peter’s car now, parked just a row over from Stiles’ Jeep. It’s blue, and sleek, and he does his best to ooh and ah, but can’t hold back a sigh when it comes time to let go over Peter’s arm.

“I’ve got your ticket for this Saturday set up with will-call already, have you ever been to the stadium field?”

“I drove by it coming here. Six o’clock?”

“Five thirty is probably better, to get a decent parking spot. A lot of UO students drive down, since it isn’t very far. Game starts at Six thirty.”

“Okay,” Peter says.

“Okay,” Stiles echoes, “And can I call you? Tomorrow, I mean, I probably won’t be done with these papers until way late tonight.”

“I’d like that. Thank you for today, this was nice.”

“Yeah! I’m the primary coach Monday and Wednesday, and then everyone is here Friday afternoons, so you picked a good day to come. I’m glad you liked it.”

“I’ll let you get on home,” Peter says, fiddling with his keys. “I know you have a lot to do.”

“I – can I hug you? I don’t want to be too handsy.”

Peter smiles, using a little bit more of the scared side of his face like Stiles had suggested. He practiced that last night, trying to embrace the pull of his skin. He hugs Stiles in response to the question, wrapping his arms about his shoulders and nosing at his temple, the dark edges of Stiles’ scar.

Stiles hugs him back, a strong embrace even when his bag falls from his shoulder and pulls on his elbow. Peter is just a touch taller than him, and they fit together perfectly.

“I’m really glad I found you. You’re not weird about the scars,”

“Because I have my own.”

“Exactly. And I don’t have to lie about where they came from, either, so thank you.”

“I’m very glad you found me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Yeah, this is excruciatingly late. Schedule got blown straight out of the water. Come yell at me about it on Tumblr @PoignantlyArrogant and maybe I'll do better.


End file.
